"Doña Refugia?" Ana knew that her aunt could not write, and that the accomplishments of her daughters in that line extended to the ability to inscribe their own names. She glanced at the message, and her lips grew suddenly white as she noted the writing.
It was in pencil, written very plainly. The envelope was folded from a page of letter-paper and sealed with gum of some sort. When she opened it, she found the written page was a communication to Mr. Bryton concerning saddle-horses. But a pencil was drawn through the lines, and around the Bryton letter was written the real message, and it was very brief:
"A man is hurt here. Can you in quiet help him to San Juan?"
An arrow and a cross were the only signature.
Teresa watched Ana questioningly. Letters to women were rare in San Juan, where few women could read; it must be of a death, or something of great importance.
But Ana told nothing, only ordered the boy to go to Ysadora for some lunch before he started back, and to tell Doña Refugia that all was well at San Juan. Though Doña Teresa listened closely, that was all she could hear that was said, and then she knew, of course, that Ana did not intend to remain a widow. She had a lover who wrote letters, an Americano perhaps; the Mexicans did not trouble themselves with such useless learning, now that the old padres were gone.
Ana sat quietly on the veranda for a little while, speaking of matters in general, and then arose languidly and confessed she wished she had gone with Raquel. A ride to the beach was better than to stay shut up in the town. Now that the vigilantes had gone, women would dare ride abroad without growing gray with fear.
"Ai! it is not far you would ride, Ana Mendez. You are like other women when it comes to riding alone these days."
"Raquel rides alone."
"Her mother was not of this country, or she would not be so bold," returned Teresa, tartly. "Men have little liking for women as strong as themselves."